


This is not a parallel, but a reversal

by segfault



Category: The Queen's Thief - Megan Whalen Turner
Genre: F/M, Getting to Know Each Other, Missing Scene, Past Relationship(s), Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 09:20:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17019996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/segfault/pseuds/segfault
Summary: Attolia doesn't have a good track record with weddings, especially her own.





	This is not a parallel, but a reversal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tassos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tassos/gifts).



> Spoilers through _The Queen of Attolia_.

The Queen of Attolia had restless dreams, and felt no better for waking. Maybe this was the nightmare, she told herself as she rose from bed, an unceasing one that she had never escaped, only put aside. How else was she here again, a decade older, queen and sovereign, yet somehow still facing her wedding day, her new husband-to-be even less appropriate than her first, the one she'd murdered before the night was out?

It was almost a relief to look in the mirror and see, not the girl she'd been then, but a woman grown, here by her own choosing. Surely that made all the difference.

As she sat down in front of her reflection, the chamber doors parted behind her, and her attendants began to trickle in, carrying garments and jewelry boxes and amphoras big and small.

Attolia held up a hand, and they all stopped in place.

A few closest to the door began to slowly back out, while Attolia continued to study her own face in the mirror, looking for traces of her nightmares. Her dreams had been unable to decide if she was a child or marrying one, a murderer or a victim, a poisoner or torturer or queen. None of it showed on her face, and not for the first time, she marveled at this smooth, stone mask of hers that had served her all these years. It was discovering this mask that had transformed her from a child to a woman, a shadow princess to a queen. No matter what happened today, the mask would protect her, as it had time and time again.

Satisfied, she nodded to her attendants, who seemed to let out a collective, if inaudible, breath of relief.

Soon her face was wreathed by their hands, so many hands, touching her hair, her cheeks, her eyelids. There was perfume to be applied, and powders, and oils. Kohl for her eyes, rouge for her cheeks. If she was sharper, more impatient with them than usual, they did not falter or complain. "Not those earrings," she snapped, and they were replaced. "Not like that, I want the braids underneath," and the girl pleating her hair patiently undid her work, and even wove a number of extra loops into the intricate style, so Attolia could hide within them two small knives, instead of just the one.

 

* * *

 

She did not see Eugenides until much later in the day. There was an appearance to be made before her people, a ceremonial torch lighting, a formal procession. When they arrived at the newly consecrated temple of Hephestia, they were greeted by eager and grateful priestesses, who were no doubt still delighted by their new turn of fortune, the grand temple being built for their goddess, their elevated position in the city. The head priestess even seemed like she was about to embrace her Queen, but a cool look was enough to dissuade her. 

Some of the priestesses were struggling to carry two large iron cages between them. The cages were full of white birds, fluttering and chirping to each other within. Attolia knew what the birds were for, but she couldn't help but find the imagery hateful, and turned to follow the high priestess up the temple steps, to where the temporary altar had been built for the wedding. Others followed behind with the birds, the torch.

At the top, she saw that Gen stood waiting, looking even younger in the clean light of day, which in turn made her feel ancient. 

It had probably killed him to stand still for two minutes at a time, much less the whole morning, but here he was, serene, uncharacteristically dignified, calm. She suddenly remembered that he was capable of putting on a mask too, and how she had underestimated him in the past, and for some reason this made her feel calm in turn.

She forced her gaze down to his right arm, and obligingly he turned to her, so that she could see the prosthetic hand he wore for the occasion. It was fairly realistic, certainly better than the hook, but it was a reminder of her handiwork all the same, and she found it just as unsightly. As though continuing to read her mind, he crossed to the right of her as she reached the top stair, so that when she came abreast of him, he was blocking her view of it of it with his body. 

She wanted to say something to him, but before she could decide whether it should be biting or polite, the high priestess made a gesture, and there was a flurry of motion behind them. The priestesses had opened the first cage, and now the second, and the birds were bursting forth, some helped along with a couple clanging taps on the bars. They formed a shock of white against the clear blue sky, and the priestesses gathered to study the augury of their cries and formation, first conferring quietly and soon nodding in satisfaction. 

Apparently the gods favored this ceremony, which was not a given. Attolia knew that if some priestess disliked the way the this one flew, or the number of feathers that one dropped as it beat its wings, the whole wedding might be postponed. She supposed she was grateful not to have to go through it all again, though she didn't put much stock into the judgment of the birds or the gods in this matter. They had approved last time, after all, and the marriage had not lasted as long as the ceremony it took to wed them.

The high priestess gathered a few of the feathers, and brought them back to the altar, where she spoke a few words. Next, she took the torches, one that had traveled the procession with Attolia, and one that had waited here with Gen, dancing and flickering impatiently while he could not, and used them together to light the ceremonial flame. 

Together they entered the inner temple, which for the time being was just the remains of the old megaron, and Attolia prepared herself for what was next.

As she knelt down, it felt like no time had passed since she'd been kneeling in another temple, her hands placed before her, bowing on cue from the temple attendants. When she braced her right hand against the stone floor, she distinctly remembered how it had stung that day, fingers and palm, from breaking the poisonous coleus herbs the night before, wrapping the powder meticulously in a cloth sachet, hiding it within her sleeve. She had checked and rechecked the sachet so many times that she could almost feel it nestled against her arm. Focusing on the stinging, and the sachet, was all that had gotten her through the ceremony, and the feast, until she'd finally watched her husband drink the poisoned wine. When he'd lost his breath, hers had come back at last.

The wedding ritual for Hephestia didn't require much bowing. As the high priestess continued, Attolia straightened up, and felt Gen straighten up beside her as well. His right hand wasn't stinging. It wasn't even real. 

As though he could sense the very weight of her thoughts, Gen leaned over ever so slightly. The priestess's voice had risen in volume and fervor, and he seemed to think it safe to whisper, "So glum on your wedding day, my bride?" 

If he could read her so well, then she didn't need to shoot him an irritated glare. "I've seen this scene play out before, my bridegroom. I don't know which of us to feel more sorry for."

"Why not the both of us, that the priestess of Hephestia must drone on so?"

This time she did dart a glance back at him. His mask was in place, not a smile to be seen... but then he angled his face toward her, and she could see that in his eyes was irrepressible laughter.

 

* * *

 

In Eddis, the tradition was for a husband to come to his new bride. Attolia sent her attendants away, and sat in front of her mirror to wait. Once or twice, she halfheartedly lifted a hand to remove her ruby headband, the pins from her hair, but the thought of meeting him with her hair down, crownless, was enough to stop her each time. 

So it was that, when her husband arrived, she was able to watch him approach in the mirror. She had little doubt that he could sneak up on her if he chose, for all that her mirror faced the only entrance to the room. But he waited until their eyes met in reflection before slowly approaching, each step deliberate. In his hand he was carrying a bowl of water, as one of her attendants might bring to wash her face; his other arm hung loose at his side.

When he reached her, he set the bowl down, then touched her cheek, tenderly, before turning his attention to her hair. "Let me," he said, and took the headband off, which suggested that he had been watching after all. She watched him pull out the first hairpin one-handed, face full of concentration, and then another, and felt her heart ache. She reached up to remove the small blades at least, but he gently pushed her hand back down. "I've taken these from your hair before," he soothed, which suggested that he knew she wore more knives than usual, for this occasion.

The earring gave him a little trouble, so she helped to hold it steady while he worked the clasp. "I thought you might wear the ones I gave you," he said, once he'd finally unhooked it, and handed it to her.

She did not move to take it. "When I was powerless, it was jewelry that I used to buy back the throne as well."

"Do you think I bought you," he said lightly, "when I was captured, facing death, or worse, at your feet? I did not have much to bargain with." 

There was a long silence before she finally accepted the earring, and set it down on the table. "I suppose it's fortunate you always had a talent for theft." 

They worked in silence a little longer, taking apart the rest of her jewelry, her braids. When that was done, he dipped a soft cloth in the water bowl and began to wipe away her rouge with it, the powder, the kohl. It was a tender gesture, but it also felt like another layer of protection was being stripped from her, one swipe at a time.

"Where would a goatfoot barbarian boy like you have learned to do all this?" she said, with a face half made up, half washed clean.

"I'm not a boy," he said patiently. 

"No, I suppose not."

"If you must know, I asked one of your attendants to show me. The white-haired one. Phresine."

"Phresine had you wash her face?"

"Of course not. I had her put the stuff on me, so I could wash it off mine. She was very patient."

Attolia watched her own eyebrow lift in the mirror, and over her shoulder Eugenides's expression mimicked hers before softening into a chuckle.

"I hope this wedding went better than your first."

"It must have, because here you are at the end of it, alive, and kinged." She couldn't help the bitter twist of her lip as she added, "Congratulations."

Gen swished the cloth in the water. A few drops flicked onto her, and she didn't doubt for a second that it was deliberate. Then he set the cloth on the edge of the bowl so he could remove his new crown. He studied it briefly, with an expression first of disgust, then of resignation, before dropping it on the table, with less care than he'd set down the washbowl for her makeup. "One day, when this goatfoot barbarian boy is trapped in some stuffy throne room listening to some stuffy baron of yours, I hope you'll remind me why I wear this stupid crown."

She picked the crown up and righted it. "Most men would kill for the privilege of wearing that stupid crown." 

"Perhaps." Gen picked up the cloth again. "One man conceded to marry you for the privilege of the crown."

Attolia, who hadn't slouched in a decade, nevertheless shot up straight, lips ready to form the dozens of scathing responses her tongue had prepared, just as soon as she decided which one to strike with first.

"A  _fool_ ," Gen continued, his eyebrow rising again, as though questioning whether she was going to let him finish, or just jump to conclusions. "As incomprehensible to me as a Median play. The crown is just another shackle. I conceded to wear it for the privilege of marrying you. And I hope, when I'm suffering horribly for it in the future, you'll remember who I'm doing it for."

With some effort, Attolia swallowed what she had been about to say. "Eddis," she responded, when she felt she could speak with some levity.

"Eddis already had a girl picked out for me." Gen finished squeezing the water from the cloth. "She's like you in that way. She doesn't like her plans to go awry."

"It must have been torture for her to grow up with you, then."

"I wouldn't doubt it." Gen didn't bother to suppress the pride in his voice as he resumed his work. And for some reason the more makeup he wiped away, the more he revealed a strange smile underneath it, one that she could not remember seeing before: wholly flesh, and not the stone that she'd expected after all.


End file.
